


An Act of Honesty

by yamabuki_kana (cygnisor)



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Pre-Canon, Slight War Depictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnisor/pseuds/yamabuki_kana
Summary: In which, after the many battles the Knights of Round Table go through, Tristan helps tending to Bedivere's wounds.
Relationships: Bedivere | Saber/Tristan | Archer
Kudos: 26





	An Act of Honesty

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt (supposedly for Drabbletober 2018): patching each other up

Tristan finds him at the back of the barrack. 

He seems to be attempting to nurse his wounds only with his one good arm, which doesn’t seem to be going any well, if Tristan is to judge by the constant fall of his bandages and the slight frustration on his face. And that reminds Tristan that he looks tired. Even from here, Tristan can see the way he slouches to side, his furrowing eyebrows, the deep lines on his forehead.

At least the wounds don’t seem to be so bad.

Tristan steps out of the shadows. “You seem to require assistance.”

Befuddlement crosses Bedivere’s face for a split second before he then looks up. At the sight of Tristan’s face, immediately the weariness set upon him vapors away. His face is bright.

“Sir Tristan,” Bedivere calls, as Tristan seats himself to his side. “Ah, your help is appreciated, but I assure you that I can definitely handle this—”

Tristan plucks the roll out of Bedivere’s hand. “I insist,” he says, meeting Bedivere’s gaze straight on.

All protests seem to die on Bedivere’s lips, when Tristan begins to unroll the bandages. They sit in the silence, for a while.

“You could’ve asked our esteemed court mage,” Tristan begins to say, “to heal your wounds.”

Bedivere sighs. “I’d rather not,” he grumbles, looking away. His expression softens then. “He’d be better off healing those with worse wounds than I.”

Right. Tristan forgets that Bedivere has always been like that. A man with too kind of a heart, who always puts others above himself. 

Which is why Tristan shrugs, though inelegant as it seems, as he leans forward. “Have it your way.”

Bedivere also leans forward towards him, flinching slightly from the pain. This close, Tristan can see the dark circles underneath Bedivere’s eyes, the bruises on his skin, the fall of his hair onto his eyes. Tristan tries not to look further.

As Bedivere raises his arm and his stump, Tristan begins to wrap the bandage around Bedivere’s torso. 

“So,” Tristan hears Bedivere, and looks up, finding Bedivere smiling at him. “What brings you here?”

It is blinding, the smile. Tristan accidentally tightens the gauze too tight, making Bedivere cry out in pain.

“Ah—” Tristan breathes, releasing his hold, to Bedivere’s slight wince. “I apologize— it’s not usually in my habit to slip....”

Bedivere has his hand pressing on his torso, as scarred as it is, still wincing. And Tristan is not used to tend people—he feels as though he is supposed to say something, to do something, but....

Suddenly Bedivere laughs. “I thought I’d never see the hands that hold Failnaught falter,” he says, his tone teasing, his eyes kind.

Tristan can only stare.

“I suppose,” he then quietly says, looking down, before reaching out to tend Bedivere’s bruised arm. 

He takes Bedivere’s hand and holds it to help him keep raising it up, and tries to will his heart’s pounding down when Bedivere links their fingers together, the action unprompted.

“You haven’t answered my question, though,” Tristan hears Bedivere say again. “What brings you here, really? It can’t be that you just happen to feel like tending wounds.”

And Tristan’s heart leaps.

This is the part where he feels as though he is baring his heart for—not for the whole world, really, but only Bedivere. Only for Bedivere to see. And it’s honestly ridiculous by how much he is afraid of it. An act of honesty is only as right as chivalry is to knights, but Tristan is afraid. That is the honest truth. He is so afraid.

“I happen to like your company,” he says, as truthful as he can, without breaking apart. After a sudden spark of courage, he then adds, “I like it better than others.”

It feels as though he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. And Tristan starts, when he feels Bedivere take his hand so suddenly. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t lift up his head. He is still silent, when Bedivere speaks.

“Sir Tristan, I...,” Bedivere grips Tristan’s hand tight. “Thank you, I’m glad that my presence is good company, for you.”

Tristan knows that if he lifts his head up now, he will see Bedivere, staring at him with earnestness, with easy honesty that always seems to come so easily to him. He will see Bedivere’s gratitude for something that Tristan is only half-truthful about. 

Bedivere will never know about the truth of Tristan’s feelings. That Tristan, in truth, has never had his eyes for Isseult. From the beginning, it has always been—

Tristan doesn’t look up.

“Yes,” he says, voice only slightly above whisper, before continuing his work.


End file.
